Interrupting Arthur
by LxISxAxBABE
Summary: All Arthur wanted after a stressful day was to spend some quality time at a pub and in someone's bed. And he'd be damned if some brat was going to take away those comforts. [punishment] SealandxEngland, noncon, BDSM, yaoi. Don't like don't read.


A request I should have filled months ago. :o (Now with new edits, thanks to The Great Imaginer Zuzume.)

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Hetalia, no doubt that I want to. The characters belong to the creator, the plot belongs to me.

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It had been a long day, and there was nothing Arthur wanted more than to get drunk and get laid. Meeting after meeting after meeting… it was time to unwind. And, Arthur huffed, pulling on his blazer, it was damn good that this particular conference was in his beloved England, and near enough to his own home so he didn't have to rent a cheap hotel room.

The night air was crisp, and many of the ambassadors had lifted their collars against the chill. There was a lot of goodbye-ing and hugs going around as people broke from the group to return to their rooms. Friends were making their ways to restaurants and parks, talking jovially, and small groups huddled together to ward off the cold as they talked. Arthur looked around, squinting against the chill. Integration seemed so… odd, but going to a bar alone would be a indignity. He scanned the groups of men and women. Anyone, anyone… his eyes came to a rest on a certain blonde man. Alfred… Arthur's lips curled a little. It had been ages since he had properly talked with the boy, and they did share a lot in common… at least he wouldn't be drinking alone. The boy looked up, their eyes meeting, and he smiled brightly.

"Iggy!" The Brit scowled. Damn that nickname… Alfred loped over easily, seemingly unaffected by the paralyzing iciness in the air.

"Alfred," Arthur began coolly. God forbid he seem affectionate, he laughed to himself, Alfred would be confused beyond return.

"Francis and I were thinking about heading to a bar he saw down the way," he said, talking animatedly. He picked up those idiotic hand motions from the Frenchman, Arthur noted irritably, he looked ridiculous. "Do you want to come along?" How convenient… he could probably drop the Frenchman with some inebriated woman during the night and take Alfred home… Arthur smiled.

"Why not?" His smile softened when Alfred lit up. He was still such a child sometimes..

"Francis, he'll come!" the boy shouted over his shoulder. Arthur could see blonde waves bouncing toward them as the Frenchman approached.

"Well, it was the offer of alcohol," he sneered, tossing his hair derisively and offering a frigid smile. "I can't imagine he would pass up a chance to feign outgoingness and drink." Arthur scowled.

"At least I don't go to drag unsuspecting drunks to my bed," he replied icily, "How much alcohol does it take to get them to agree, I wonder." His eyes settled in Francis', noting the icy laughter in cool blue irises. He could practically read his nights' goals in those shameless blue circles. But you're not taking Alfred tonight, the Brit growled internally. Not without dispatching me.

They walked briskly, Alfred leading the way with the blind obliviousness of a child. Arthur felt Francis' eyes on his face, studying him, but he ignored him. Not tonight, Frenchie. He tightened his scarf around his neck, cursing the cold. Damn this infernal weather! Since when was the conference house so far from the nearest pub! Alfred was babbling about something or other, childish prattle, something about debt and Jersey Shore, but neither European nation listened. The cold sucked away their patience and cordiality. Alfred didn't seem to notice; in fact, he seemed completely unfazed by the chill. His hands moved animatedly, occasionally moving to work their fingers through his hand and tousle it instinctively. He smiled brightly, lips bright red from the cold, cheeks flushed. In the middle of a thought, he would pause and worry his lower lip with pearly teeth, making it swell with the extra attention. Arthur found his eyes draw to that provocative mouth, unconsciously staring at those rosy lips. What would those feel like, on his lips and his skin and… Arthur's thoughts drifted, but he snapped to attention, blinking awake. The pub loomed ahead, casting dim yellow light on the pavement. Alfred was gone, dashing to the door in his Calvin Klein shoes and Newman suit. Francis followed behind with long, easy strides, holding the door for a second to make eye contact with Arthur, before laughing and entering. Arthur caught the door with a scowl. The warmth of the bar and its patrons swept out to him and took the edge off the chill. The scent of buttered rum and hot toddies came out to meet him. Arthur stepped in, shutting the door, and the heat of the room urged him to strip off his winter garments. His scarf was wound off, his jacket hung with care, and he brushed off his suit. _No need to look slovenly because you're at a pub, Arthur…_

His companions were seated at a rough-hewn table near the fireplace. There were a few logs blazing merrily, returning the feeling to the tips of Arthur's fingers. Alfred had tossed his jacket carelessly over the back of his chair, and the cuffs of his shirt were opened wide.

"I've never had half of these drinks!" he was saying, laughing brightly, "Maybe I'll just take one of everything and see what works." He laughed again, and Arthur noted with disdain the glint of predatory lust in Francis' eyes.

"Don't you think that's a bit much?" Arthur stated, easing into his chair. When Alfred shook his head, the Brit sighed. "Pick one or two- you'll be sick if you demand every drink." He leaned back a little, stretching. "Personally, I might go with an apple Toddy." he glanced over at another table, laden with rich steaming foods and fragrant coffees. "And some hot pudding." Alfred looked up from the drink menu.

"How's the Dutch Treat drink?" he asked, his eyes moving quickly.

"Mm." Arthur closed his menu slowly. "Never had it before. Though I don't doubt it's nice."

"I think I'll have a Scottish coffee," Francis said languidly, flicking his eyes up to England. "It's been a while since I've seen that brother of yours, so I'll drink to his health." Arthur restrained his scowl.

"He's well. He's been looking for something easy to distract him, so I'll tell him to call you over." Francis rolled his eyes like a teenage girl. Alfred looked between the men, the electricity nearly tangible in the room, and he cleared his throat.

"Should I go up and order for us?" he asked hesitantly. Francis nodded.

"That would be wonderful, thank you, Alfred," he drawled, returning a smug gaze to Arthur when Alfred smiled. The boy squirmed out of his seat and was off to the bartender, before Arthur turned a furious gaze to the Frenchman.

"Listen, _frog_," he hissed through his teeth, "I don't know what you're playing at, but I don't like it. Why not turn those filthy claws of yours on some street whore and leave the boy alone."

"Leave him alone indeed!" Francis pretended to be shocked. "So I leave him at your mercy? Come now, _Chou_, we both know what you want." He tapped his temple with two long fingers and smiled. "I have a better chance than you anyway. He's already rather fond of me." his smile turned wicked. "Imagine how he'll feel after tonight." Arthur gritted his teeth and glowered.

"You're an embarrassment." he folded his arms and leaned back, trying to take back some sliver of self-control and confidence. "What is it with you? Jealous of me? Lord knows you've tried to sleep with my entire family. Moving onto my former charges?"

"Jealous? Of you?" Francis stifled a bitter laugh. "What have I to be jealous of? A poor alcoholic who can't even keep a few nations under control without turning into a blubbering mess? If I remember correctly, it was I who offered support to Alfred when you stifled him." He smiled and tossed his hair from his face with a shake of his head. "But let's not fight, _mon cher_. Let's have Alfred decide who he goes home with." He closed his eyes for a moment and tilted his head, before letting eyes saturated with sinful lust settle on Arthur's face indolently. "Good luck to you, _pauvre gerçure." _

Alfred returned at that moment, and Francis stretched.

"The bartender said he'd bring over our drinks in a few minutes," he said brightly. Arthur nodded absently and looked at the wall behind the boy's head. Francis smiled languidly.

"Fantastic." he brushed his hair from his face slowly. "So how have you been Alfred? It's been a while since we could relax and chat." Alfred nodded, smiling.

"I'm good." He launched into a long description of things back in America, his story bouncing in all directions with no rhyme or reason. Arthur tried to focus, but there wasn't a fragment of sense in the whole story. The beverages arrived, and he took to sipping his frequently to avoid participating in the storytelling. Francis tried to follow, his smile wavering as the story took a steep detour, his brow furrowing. But he held Alfred's attention like some sort of animal tamer. He kept too-blue eyes trained on the American's face, searching out something, keeping his focus sharp. _Why on earth did I think I could manage against him?_ Arthur thought, scowling a little. _Francis spends 90% of his day perfecting seduction techniques. _Francis understood the human mind. Arthur could barely understand himself. The drinks kept coming, and Arthur knocked back mug after mug of thick, rich drink. _This is hopeless. I'm not even trying. _

Arthur glanced over the rim of his mug and met Alfred's blue eyes.

"Arthur, are you okay? That's, like, your fourth drink tonight." The boy looked down at his own drink, as if making sure it hadn't suddenly leapt into Arthur's hand. "Maybe I should bring you home or something, you look stressed."

_This is my chance._ Arthur flushed slightly and set his mug down, before looking back to Alfred.

"I am feeling a bit worn out," he lied. Alfred looked concerned.

"Then let's bring you home. You live around here right? I can get a cab…" he began to get up, and Arthur glanced over toward Francis. His eyes flashed with all the loathing in the world. Arthur smirked.

"Maybe you could help me unwind," he said, almost amused by his own lame comment. Alfred didn't seem to hear, too busy trying to straighten himself out (he had long since rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, unbuttoned his collar, and loosened his tie) to listen. Francis was scowling, hard lines in that sweet face, ruining that angelic countenance.

"Arthur, if you want, I can stay over." He looked up with naiveté in his face, and Arthur had to subdue his smile.

"Please, would you? Thank you, Alfred." Arthur smiled sweetly. "That's very thoughtful of you." It was almost as enjoyable to see the disgust and rage on Francis' normally placid face as it was to think about all of the things the night could accomplish… How things had turned around!

"Hey, jerk face." Arthur froze. "_Hey_. Why didn't you bring me to the meeting, stupid?" He looked over his shoulder. That deplorable child…

Peter scowled and folded his arms, imitating perfectly the expression worn on Arthur's face. "Well? Why did you leave me?" Francis' eyes lit up like a cat's, glowing with sheer delight and gloating pleasure.

"Peter, just go home," Arthur groaned, "Not now." The boy pulled a harsh face.

"You think you can boss me around like some colony?! Ha!" he put his hands on his hips.

"Peter, please… go talk to Alaisdair or Llewelyn or someone…" Arthur felt Alfred's eyes on him, and he was embarrassed by Peter's behavior. Peter himself, however, didn't seem to care.

"No."

"C'mon, lad, you're acting like a child…" Arthur metaphorically rubbed his temples and prayed, by some miracle, that Peter might give up and actually obey for once in his short life.

"I'm not a child!" Peter scowled fiercely, his British roots showing brightly. Don't treat me like a child! You know what? This is what I think of you and your stupid face!"

Arthur was expecting some childish sound, profanity, or something infantile. He didn't expect to feel the sting of an open palm. He started, bringing a hand to his stinging cheek. Peter seemed proud, crossing his arms and grinning victoriously. And for a moment, the whole party was silent, in shock.

Francis clapped his hands once, before picking up his drink.

"Well, that was unexpected," he mused, taking a sip, "It seems we have another Alfred in the making. Why don't you rebel, Peter dear? You could probably win with a hit like that." Arthur felt the burn of anger and shame on his cheeks.

"Peter-" he began, trying to keep the rising anger from his voice.

"I'm not even acting like Alaisdair, and you're treating me like I'm not good enough," Peter was pushing his case, and Arthur felt his temper flaring.

"In fact, _you're _the one who's not good enough! You can't even hold onto colonies, and things, right? I read my history books." Peter pointed accusingly, taking a step back. "Alaisdair told me you just take things, and then you're not even man enough to fight for them."

Alfred laughed. The sound broke Arthur's heart.

"This Alaisdair guy sounds hilarious!"

Arthur had heard enough. He closed a hand around Peter's wrist like a vice, pulling him closer.

"Come," he growled. Francis had won. He was beyond caring right now, as he pushed through the crowd. He could feel Alfred and Francis looking toward him, perhaps talking about the incident, but he didn't care. He grabbed his jacket and scarf, pushing open the door and entering the frigid streets. Peter looked at him in distress.

"Arthu-"

"Shut it." The Brit set his jaw, letting go of the boy's wrist to fight his jacket on. "Don't say another word until we're home, or so help me, you will have real reason to dislike me." His jacket hung open, his scarf was loosely wrapped, but he didn't care. His hand returned to Peter's arm like a vice, and the boy cried out in pain as Arthur pulled him down the street. Maybe it was the liquor that made this affront so much worse. Arthur felt rage spreading through his system like poison, stiffening his limbs and numbing him. He turned a corner sharply, his fingers closing tighter around the thin wrist, and Peter yelped.

Kirkland Manor loomed ahead, the crowning achievement of years of hard work and dedication. Arthur pushed through the wrought-iron fence, hauling Peter up the rough stone steps, tearing open the ancient door and throwing the boy inside.

"Arthur?" Peter was almost afraid to look up. His eyes moved up to the man as he slammed the door shut and turned to him. In the dim entryway light, the Brit looked menacing.

"Walk," he growled.

"Where?" all of his former feistiness had vanished somewhere in the streets.

"My room. Walk. Now." He pushed the boy with his heel, scowling. "Go, damnit!" The sheer stillness of the house was terrifying. The only sounds were their feet, the click of Arthur's expensive shoes and the scuff of Peter's sneakers. The floorboard creaked, and Peter flinched. He stopped at the doorway, but Arthur forced it open roughly, pushing Peter in. The door slammed behind him.

"Arthur-?" Peter started to turn around. A cold hand tangled itself in his hair and made him cry out as it forced him to look at the wall in front of him. He was pushed ahead roughly, led by his hair, and pushed to the bed. His face was thrust into the mattress.

"I am just… in shock," Arthur began, throwing open his closet. "Absolutely stunned… that after years of dealing with your antics… I wouldn't expect this." His hands moved over boxes, searching labels blindly. "But then again, I would expect that after so long… you might have learned an ounce of discipline." He pulled a box down from the top shelf. "I'm a little too expectant, I guess, and I have too much faith." The cardboard lid hit the floor with a soft sound. "Well, that's over, now, after that little show of yours." He stood up, turning to the immobilized boy quaking with fear.

"I'm done being generous," Arthur said, his voice dangerously low. "Now it's time to give you a taste of the new punishment in this house."

He moved toward the bed, brushing his scarf over his shoulder as he went. Peter noticed too late the rope in his hand, and it was far too late to try and flee to another room. He fought, twisting and pulling to break free, but it wasn't worth the effort. The rough fibers bit into his wrists and tore at his skin when he moved. Arthur laced the rope through the headboard, pulling roughly and forcing the boy onto his knees as he tied him down. The knots held tightly, and when he was completely assured of the hold, Arthur stepped back. He dropped his jacket and scarf to the floor, leaving his now-rumpled suit untouched. Then he returned to the box, lifting it and dropping it at the end of the bed.

"After this, you won't sit without my permission," Arthur growled. Peter trembled. For once, his mouth failed him. The Brit was perfectly still, sorting through the box methodically, taking things out, glancing at objects before burying them. His eyes never strayed from his task. He didn't notice the boy inching up into a kneeling position, stopping when he was finally upright again.

Finally, Peter found words.

"What are you going to do?" he tried to sound confident, but the strength left his voice before it could emerge. He saw Arthur stop. The man set the things in his hands down and made eye contact for a moment. It was long enough for Peter to see the pure rage in his eyes, long enough to register what was going to happen before the back of his hand cracked across Peter's cheek. He squealed, tears springing to his eyes immediately and coursing down his swelling cheek. He looked up, eyes wide, but Arthur had returned to his sorting. The message had read clear enough to warrant no words.

Finally, the box was tossed to the floor, and Arthur turned back to the sniffling boy. Peter watched in fear as those fierce eyes scanned him quickly. They made eye contact again, but Peter ducked his head down immediately.

"Back. On your hands and knees." His voice was sharp and biting. Peter moved back, keeping his head down. He felt sure hands closing on his hips, pulling him back farther, then sure fingers hooking in belt loops and tearing open his jeans carelessly. He sat still and silent as Arthur stripped him bare. A hand, still cold from the outdoors slid over his ass slowly, and Peter tensed.

The hand came down with a crack, and Peter bit his lip hard to stifle a scream. It came down twice more, before Peter whimpered. He felt the bed sag as Arthur moved onto the mattress, and he tried to bury his face in the pillow. This attention… Arthur moved a hand over the pink skin of the boy's ass to circle his hip and cup his growing arousal.

"Is this some sort of attention bid for you, brat?" he hissed, and Peter shook his head vehemently, tears soaking into the pillows.

"Words!" his voice was glacial.

"No-" The hand came down, and Peter cried out again. "_Sir_!" The cool hand returned, rubbing over the enflamed skin in mock-kindness.

"This isn't for your pleasure" the hand on his arousal closed a little tighter, and Peter chewed the pillow to stop the moan from escaping. "Sick brat." The pressure on his hardening prick was unbearable, and Peter sobbed out a moan into the pillow.

The hands left, and Peter turned his head slowly, trying to see. Those fingers in his hair again, forcing him to look straight. The hand moved, and a strip of black fabric closed over his eyes. Arthur could see the fear in the boy, but he just tied the knot firmly and moved on.

Peter struggled to see through the black cotton, but it was hopeless. Every sensation was magnified. His cheek and rear stung angrily, and the rope scraped at his wrists with every movement and undulation of the bed. When Arthur leaned over him, the cool slither of his silk jacket over his enflamed skin made him want to moan. Soft fabric slid across his face, and he flinched.

"Open." Cool fingers tapped his lips impatiently, and for a moment of panic, Peter considered biting those fingers. He opened his mouth, and fabric was thrust between his teeth, jamming his tongue back and making him gag. It was terrifying… and horribly arousing. His skin heated up with shame. Arthur leaned back, and the edge of his jacket slid over bare skin again.

This boy, bound, gagged, and sightless, wearing just his tee-shirt, could hardly substitute for a night he could have had, Arthur noted bitterly.

"You know, it was supposed to be someone else here tonight," he said, fingers feeling out blindly for the riding crop he had pulled from the box. "But like the attention seeking slut you are, you ruined that. Happy now?" He drew back the end with a finger and let it go to tap bare skin torturously. A muffled gasp and whine. He dragged the tip down over the fading marks.

"Well, fine. You want my attention?" The whip came down, and Peter sobbed into the gag. "You have it." Saliva soaked into the dark fabric. The triangular head of the whip stung and left crimson welts on pale skin. Again and again, bright welts cropped up, drawing pained whimpers and cries, muffled by fabric. Saliva ran down Peter's chin, tears ran down his cheeks. Little pinpricks of blood emerged on the surface of his skin, and wine-colored bruises blossomed. When Arthur dragged thin leather along the swelling skin, a horrible shudder racked the boy's body. It slid back up, over the curve of his hips to slip under the hem of Peter's tee-shirt, and Arthur heard his breath hitch.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" the man asked sweetly, "You've got my attention now." He lifted the crop, bringing with it the soft fabric of the tee-shirt. It slid up to the shoulder blades, baring smooth, pale skin. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for some sharp blow.

It never came. The crop was set down on the small of his back, making him flinch as the warm handle rolled a little before settling. Hands slid up his bare stomach, brushing over hypersensitive nipples on the way up. The soft fabric of slacks pressed against throbbing skin, gentle at first before pushing firmly. Hands were lifted before fingers moved over Peter's jaw line, gently pulling at young skin before tangling in his hair. He pulled, yanking the boy's head back. His face glistened with tears and saliva, and he whimpered as Arthur's free hand slid up his neck slowly.

"I guess if I can't have Alfred" the alcohol had caught up to him, and his voice was thick with brandy "You can make a rather _poor_ substitute. It's your lucky day now, isn't it?" he mocked, his fingers pressing into Peter's windpipe just slightly, making him wheeze. "You got me here with you for such a small price." More tears leaked from the blindfold, and he made a low, incoherent sound in the back of his throat.

"I'm still being gentle," Arthur remarked as he let Peter's head drop to the pillows. He unzipped his slacks and freed himself, giving himself a few readying pumps. There was a clear bottle at the edge of the bed, almost full with a pinkish gel- he reached and grabbed it, flicking it open with a thumb. "I could go about this without any sort of lubrication, but I'm too soft on you." Peter flinched as a hand pushed his legs open and pulled at a bruised cheek. Cool gel met his skin, and two fingers spread it around his puckered hole slowly. Peter suppressed a moan as one finger pressed in just slightly. He was light-headed and sick with pain and pleasure, torn between his newly rising erection and the horrible smarting on his ass. In the stifling silence, there was a wet sound, a slow 'shlck' that made his thighs quiver.

"Well, bloody hell." Arthur laughed softly, darkly. It sounded menacing in the darkness. "It's back, is it?" A wet hand closed over a throbbing erection, making it twitch. "Filthy slut." He slid back the foreskin with his thumb, making the boy quake. "Well, god forbid we reward you tonight." The hand was gone, and then Arthur was gone, standing, back to the cardboard box.

"I have something for that problem though." he chuckled. There was a shuffling sound, then the clink of metal on metal. His heels clicked across the floor, and the bed sagged. The wet hand was back, sliding down his length and making him moan. Then a metal ring was sliding over his crown, no two, no three… Five metal rings, ice cold against his skin. A strip of leather teased the head of his member. God, it was brutal! Peter whined into the gag, earning a swift crack across the ass. Stinging tears soaked into the blindfold.

_Shlck, shlck_. Peter's thighs began to tremble as he felt that round bit of flesh press against his entrance. Guided by a steady hand, it pressed in. Peter bit down harder on the gag, more saliva running down his chin and soaking into the pillows. The silk of Arthur's pants slid over the purple welts on his skin and made him whimper softly. He was quaking, restrained by the Gates of Hell on his cock and the ropes on his wrists, and he felt like he was going to erupt, or pass out. Nothing could have felt worse or better.

Arthur rocked against him, letting his head tilt back and a moan slip from his lips. Peter was mind-numbingly tight, it felt so good… He pulled out and pushed in deeper, gasping at the unconscious clenching. Slowly at first, protection from ruining the fun. Fingers dug into Peter's back and hips, pressing the riding crop into his skin and making him cry out.

The bed began to protest, hitting the wall and squeaking as panting and muffled sounds began to break the silence. His bound erection was aching with need, his body shaking, but he tried to remain quiet. His moans, gasps, and whimpers were swallowed up by the gag. More saliva ran down his throat, cool between his collarbones. His arms were quaking, barely able to support him, and they gave out, burying his face in the pillows. The new angle had him seeing stars, had Arthur pounding against his swollen bruises and making him cry with pain. And Arthur was moaning, gasping, getting more and more erratic with his thrusts as he hit the ceiling.

A few more rough hits and Arthur pulled out with a moan. Peter felt the lukewarm liquid splatter his rear and back. It began to run down his thighs slimily, making him shudder. The bed shifted, and expensive shoes clicked across the floor. A zipper sounded, and the heels stopped.

"I'm going out," Arthur declared, studying his handiwork with a twisted sense of pleasure. "I'll be home later tonight, I think. Until then… I presume you won't be causing any trouble like this, now, will you?" he laughed dryly. Peter began to cry out, but there was a crack of leather against the wooden footboard, and he stopped. Arthur smiled.

"Good boy." He put away everything, tucked neatly in the cardboard box. It returned to its shelf, and the door was closed as if nothing was wrong. He straightened himself out, picked up his jacket and scarf, and looked back to the bed. Bad child, ass up and covered in come, bruised and scraped and dripping. He smiled and tossed the riding crop on the bed, letting it hit Peter's knees and making him cry out in fear. His face glistened with sweat, tears, and drool. The front of his shirt had started soaking up his saliva, leaving a dark, creeping stain on the light fabric. Arthur was surprisingly calm- the boy was rather therapeutic, despite being a monster of a boy. He smiled quietly to himself, opening the door to his room. In the corridor, he pulled the door shut and locked it, chuckling.

Maybe this could become a regular thing.

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A/N: This is my first story in months. _Mon Dieu_, it's been so long. Please, R&R, reviews are a writer's dream! _Merci beaucoup, mes chers~!_

Quick Translations:

_chou_: term of endearment, lit. means 'cabbage'

_mon cher_: my dear

_pauvre gerçure_: poor chap

If I missed any french, tell me and I'll translate immediately. :o


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